Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  “Ma’am?” he called, reaching out a hand to stop her.

  She turned to glare at him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles, her eyes so distorted by the glass he couldn’t tell their color. She wasn’t as old as he’d thought. Nor was she what one would call pretty, either, with that dirty face and jutting chin.

  “What?” she barked, her lips drawn in a tight line.

  “I’m with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, ma’am. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I could.”

  “Ask somebody else. I got a train to catch.” Yanking her arm from his grip, she resumed walking.

  “Please, ma’am. It’ll only take a moment.” He was reaching out again when someone elbowed him so hard it sent him staggering.

  “You leave her alone!”

  Hildebrand regained his balance to see a burly farmer looming over him, hands the size of hams gripping two valises. “Look here,” Hildebrand began, then stopped when Weyland ran up, clutching a yellow telegram.

  “It’s all right, Byron. They found her. Sorry for the misunderstanding, sir,” he said to the farmer, waving him on his way. Turning back to Hildebrand, Weyland handed over the telegram. “The client’s partner found her in Altoona. He’s taking her back to New York. We’re done here.”

  Hildebrand scanned the wire, then frowned, watching the couple climb the steps onto the train. “I don’t know. There’s something about that woman . . .”

  “Aw, let it go, Byron. It’s over. We’re off the case.”

  For now, maybe. But Hildebrand had a feeling the case was far from over.

  * * *

  “Thank you, Mr. Olafson,” Lucinda said to the hulking farmer outside her sleeping compartment door.

  “You sure you’ll be alright, ma’am? That man in the station—”

  “A case of mistaken identity,” she cut in. “You heard him. I’m sure everything is fine. You may set my other bag by the couch.”

  He did, then looked around. “You staying in here all by yourself?”

  “No, my sister will be joining me at the next water stop. Thank you again.”

  After ushering him out the door, Lucinda turned the lock, then yanking off the spectacles, collapsed, shaking and nauseated, onto the couch.

  She didn’t know which had terrified her more—that Pinkerton man in the station or not being able to see through the distorting spectacles. Thank God for Mr. Olafson. He had seen her almost fall down the steps of the horsecar, and if he hadn’t taken one of her valises and helped her into the station, she might be in the custody of the Pinkerton detectives right now.

  A sudden knock on the door sent her scrambling for the spectacles again. Making certain her disguise was in place, she went to the door and opened it.

  A new George smiled back at her—older, grayer, fewer teeth in his welcome smile. “Welcome aboard, ma’am. Just makin’ sure eve’ything all right. Need anything ’fore we start rolling?”

  Lucinda thought for a moment, then decided to risk it. “As a matter of fact, George, there is.” She fabricated a story about a stocky gray-haired man with missing fingers who had been overly forward toward her in the station. “So rather than expose myself to more of his attentions,” she went on, as she reached into the reticule still hanging from her wrist, “I was wondering if I might be able to take my meals here in my compartment?” As she spoke, she pulled out a twenty-dollar double eagle.

  George’s grin widened. “Sho’ can. Want I should bring you a menu?”

  “That’s not necessary. Whatever the main offering is at each meal will be fine.” She pressed the coin into his pink palm. “You’ll tell me if you see him?”

  “Yessum, I will. Don’t want none of my peoples bothered, no, ma’am, I don’t.”

  “Thank you, George. I appreciate the fine care you’re taking of me.”

  After making arrangements for the porter to bring the evening meal at six thirty, Lucinda returned to the couch with a deep sigh. At least it seemed Tait’s telegram had reached Doyle, and the Pinkertons were no longer on her trail. Now all she had to worry about was Smythe. Was he still after her? She hadn’t seen him in the station.

  And she hadn’t seen Tait, either.

  Had he taken the train back to New York?

  Would he tell Doyle the truth?

  Weary and heartsick, she curled up on the cushions and let exhaustion overcome her.

  * * *

  She arrived in Columbus without further incident. Still undecided whether she should go on up to Chicago or down to St. Louis, she stood in the ticket line and studied the board on the wall of the depot while keeping an eye out for the persistent Mr. Olafson.

  He had stopped several times by her compartment. It wasn’t until late this morning that she was finally able to convince him that she was fine and her husband would be meeting her in Columbus. But just to be certain, she had discarded the farm woman disguise in favor of a plain frock under her green cape, and had hidden her blond hair beneath the green bonnet. Seeing neither the kindly farmer, nor any men who looked like they could be Pinkerton agents, nor Smythe, she moved forward to the ticket agent. “Have you any private sleeping compartments available on tomorrow’s train to Chicago?” she asked the ticket clerk.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “How about to St. Louis?”

  He thumbed through the dog-eared papers strewn over the ticket counter. “There’s several stops between here and there, but, yes, ma’am. We have one Pullman compartment left that goes all the way. Leaves in ten minutes.”

  The decision made, Lucinda paid for the ticket, picked up her valises, and walked out to where the conductor was arguing with an auburn-haired woman beside the waiting train.

  “How can there be no more berths available?” the woman railed in a cultured English accent. “I specifically reserved a private compartment all the way through to St. Louis. I have the voucher here in my hand.”

  The elderly conductor studied the ticket, then pointed out that it was issued by a different railroad company than the one traveling on to St. Louis.

  “So I was duped? This is most vexing. Do you Colonials not communicate with each other at all? How am I to ride in coach with all this equipment?” She waved a hand at the mound of boxes and crates and valises piled at her feet. “I must have a compartment. Surely you can see that.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “Oh, bother!”

  The woman looked to be near Lucinda’s own age, clean, well dressed, and on the verge of tears. Or temper. Her color was so high, Lucinda wasn’t certain which. Deciding to take a chance, and thinking having a traveling companion might ease the boredom as well as provide an element of disguise, Lucinda stepped up with a smile. “I couldn’t help but overhear. There is no one but me in my compartment, ma’am, and if it would help, I would be pleased to share.”

  The woman blinked at her out of round brown eyes, then broke into a bright smile that turned her unremarkable face into one of rare beauty. “Oh, you dear thing. It would help immensely.” She held out a gloved hand, saw Lucinda was gripping the two valises, and let it drop back to her side. “Madeline Wallace, but I prefer Maddie. From Scotland. Or rather, London. Or perhaps, both, really. Oh dear, if I don’t stop babbling, you’re sure to change your mind. Thank you so much. I am in your debt.”

  Lucinda nodded. “Lucinda Hathaway of New York.” And seeing the woman was a bit out of her element, she aimed a dimpled smile at the conductor. “I know you’re anxious to rectify your mistake, sir, so I’m sure Miss Wallace will appreciate your tending to this straightaway . . . at no charge, of course. Please have one of the station boys bring her belongings to compartment four on the second Pullman Car.” Leaning closer, she added in a lower voice, “And be advised there has been a man following me.” She gave a brief description of Smythe. �
�Please don’t tell him our compartment number, and alert me if you see him. I would be ever so grateful.” Another smile, then before the befuddled conductor could argue, she made a last check for Smythe then nodded toward the boarding steps. “Come along, Miss Wallace. I believe we’re delaying the other passengers.”

  As they moved down the narrow hall toward the last compartment on the right, the woman called from behind her, “Actually, it’s missus—Mrs. Angus Wallace. At least I think it is. He left some years ago, you see. He’s a soldier. Scottish, although he’s an officer in the British cavalry. Or was. I supposed if he had died, I would still be a missus, don’t you think? It’s all most vexing.”

  Lucinda smiled, her spirits rising. At least she wouldn’t be bored.

  And so far, no sign of Smythe.

  If not for the empty ache in her heart, she might have thought it a grand day.

  * * *

  Tait floated in pain. Relentless, inescapable pain that was so encompassing he didn’t know where it ended and he began.

  Dimly, out of the darkness came voices. A woman’s—not Lucinda’s—and a child’s. Occasionally a man’s. He tried to call to them, tell them to help him and make the pain stop. But he couldn’t seem to form the words, and the effort of trying brought even more pain.

  Sometimes someone forced water into his mouth. Did things to his body that sent his mind spiraling into darkness.

  Day? Night?

  Was he alive or dead?

  He didn’t know. Didn’t care. He just wanted the pain to stop.

  Someone sang. A high, child’s voice, singing a tune he remembered from long ago. In desperation, he turned toward it. A faint light, no bigger than a pinprick, showed in the distance. He struggled toward it through smothering blackness that was even more terrible than the pain.

  The voice grew louder.

  The light grew brighter, then suddenly burst into his mind like fire.

  “Lucinda,” he gasped and opened his eyes.

  “Ma!” the child shouted. “He’s awake!”

  Eleven

  Lucinda had never had close friends, either as a child or an adult. In Ireland, there had been a few neighbor children that she vaguely remembered. But the desperation of those times and the unrelenting hunger and despair had left little energy or inclination for childish play.

  At Mrs. Throckmorton’s home, the only children Lucinda ever saw were those of servants or tradespeople, and such associations were not encouraged. Naturally, her guardian knew nothing about the greengrocer’s son. And because of fears that Lucinda’s Irish heritage would cause her to be ostracized, Mrs. Throckmorton had kept her somewhat isolated from children of the upper classes, as well.

  So instead of sharing confidences and giggles in the schoolroom, or trading advice on dresses and hairstyles and boys as an adolescent, Lucinda had remained quietly in the shadows, reading, watching, and taking daily lessons from her nanny and tutors on how to cast aside her base Irish nature and imitate proper behavior. She learned how to handle servants, stitch a sampler, and choose the correct fork at a formal dinner. And over the last year, through observation during those long dinners with Doyle and Tait, she had gained knowledge in business—how to read accounting books, assess weakness in an investment opportunity, evaluate risk and potential profit, and how to negotiate—although with Doyle, negotiation was more like threat and manipulation.

  But never had she been taught how to be a friend.

  It was a novel experience—the instantaneous familiarity and rapport that sprang up between her and Maddie Wallace. In truth, the overtures of friendship were mostly on Maddie’s part—not that Lucinda wasn’t pleased or flattered, but her natural reserve and lack of experience made it a bit awkward. Yet it was difficult not to be swept along by the Englishwoman’s natural vivacity.

  Perhaps it was that bright outlook that gave Maddie the daring to journey halfway around the world on her own while dragging in her wake enough luggage to fill most of her side of the tiny compartment. Lucinda had traveled only a few hundred miles, and she was already exhausted and apprehensive of what might lay ahead.

  But then, Maddie didn’t have a vicious degenerate, an irate groom, and several Pinkerton detectives hounding her footsteps, either.

  “Do you plan on staying in America long?” Lucinda asked, eyeing the stack of crates and boxes in the corner of their compartment as she shook out the next day’s dress and hung it on a hook beside her couch.

  “I had only intended to be here two years,” Maddie admitted. “And that time will be up in a few months. Although I have to say, there is such a wealth of material here in your vast country I could easily stay for another two.”

  “Material?”

  Maddie gave a bright smile that was almost childlike in its enthusiasm. “I’ve already done the Colonies and some of the Civil War sites, and now I’m off to the Wild West. I can scarcely wait.” She must have seen Lucinda’s confusion. “Did I not mention that I’m an expeditionary photographer? Although I prefer portraiture, don’t you? But one must do as one’s publisher insists, I suppose.”

  “A photographer?” Lucinda was astounded. She had never heard of a female photographer. Perhaps Maddie Wallace wasn’t such a bubblehead after all. “Is that what’s contained in all these crates? Your photography equipment?”

  “Yes, but not to worry.” Maddie patted Lucinda’s shoulder, which startled her into a flinch. Lucinda tried to cover it with an awkward smile but could see Maddie had noticed. Having suffered enough pawing at Mrs. Beale’s, Lucinda had a well-earned aversion to being touched by strangers. Oddly, though, it hadn’t seemed to have bothered her with Tait.

  “I keep all the dangerous chemicals and emulsions in closed containers,” Maddie went on in reassurance as Lucinda took a seat on the couch on her side of the room. “We’re in little danger of an explosion. Unless the train derails,” she added with a gay laugh.

  Lucinda glanced at the crates again, wondering if in her impulsive generosity she had signed her own death warrant.

  “I daresay that won’t happen. It hasn’t yet, anyway.” Maddie checked a watch pinned in her skirt pocket, then almost lost her balance when the train jerked into motion. “We’re on our way, it seems. And luckily, only three hours late.” Almost falling onto the couch across from Lucinda’s when the train gave another lurch, she straightened her skirts and heaved a great sigh. “Well,” she said, folding her hands in her lap and smiling at Lucinda. “We still have several hours yet before dinner, so why don’t we become better acquainted? I assume you’re not married, which I must say, astounds me, considering how beautiful you are. So if not an angry husband, then who is it you’re running from?”

  Lucinda’s jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”

  Maddie made a face. “Too forward? With you Colonials, one never knows. Perhaps I should go first, then. I’m running from an indifferent marriage, myself. A lovely man, but from a rather tiresome family—except for Glynnis, of course. But really, after only one visit and three letters in six years, what else was I to do? Molder in that drafty old castle forever? As if. So naturally, when the opportunity presented itself, thanks to Mr. Chesterfield, my publisher at The Illustrated London News, I jumped at the chance to rekindle my interest in photography and come here. Now it’s your turn.”

  “A castle?” Good heavens, was she sharing quarters with royalty?

  Maddie made an airy motion with one graceful hand. “I know. It’s utterly absurd. The thing should have been modernized years ago, but the old earl insists everything remain the same as it has been for . . . well . . . forever. The Scots do cling to their traditions. Now you.”

  “Now me what?”

  “Where are you headed? Is Columbus your destination, or will you be traveling farther? I’m going to the Rocky Mountains in Colorado Territory. Have you ever been th
ere? I’ve seen photographs and it looks like magnificent country. Wouldn’t it be lovely if we were to travel that far together? It gets rather lonely traveling alone, I’ve found. But you can no doubt surmise that by the way I keep running on.”

  Lucinda had to laugh. What an engaging, cheerful, and artless person Maddie Wallace was. She was just what Lucinda needed to lift her spirits and take her mind off Tait. It would be nice sharing the long hours in such pleasant company. “As a matter of fact, I was heading west, myself,” she said, acting uncharacteristically on impulse. And why not? Where else had she to go?

  “Oh, how marvelous,” Maddie cried, clapping her hands in delight. “I think we shall get along famously, even if you snore. Angus sometimes snored, and I often find I miss it, which is strange, insomuch as we spent only a few nights in each other’s company.” A sad look crossed her lively features, then was quickly masked behind another bright smile. “But that’s neither here nor there. We’re off to make new starts and put the past behind us, you and I. And what an adventure we shall have!”

  Lucinda smiled. A new start. Hopefully this one would be her last.

  * * *

  Tait floated in and out of awareness, sometimes shivering with cold, at other times feeling so hot he thought he was on fire. And always thirsty.

  Gradually the pain dwindled to a constant deep ache, mostly on his right side and down his left leg—and a sharp burning across in his chest, and shoulder, and face. His head never stopped pounding. He felt cocooned in wrappings, and wondered how badly he was broken.

  He didn’t know where he was or who the woman was he often found hovering over him when he awoke. He didn’t know how long he had been there or where Smythe was or if Lucinda was safe. He didn’t know how he could hurt this bad and still live.

  “You must drink,” the woman said.

  He opened his eyes—his left one, anyway. The right was trapped beneath a thick bandage that covered the side of his face from jaw to temple. “Who . . .”